


so visceral (yet deeply inept)

by haemophilus



Series: Transcendental Youth [3]
Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Arson, Gen, Gen Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 14:16:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10664367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haemophilus/pseuds/haemophilus
Summary: Dooley turns down Mac's application to work at McDonald's, and Mac spirals downward.





	so visceral (yet deeply inept)

**Author's Note:**

> CW for alcohol abuse, vomit, arson, and general 20-something ennui. Title again from "Let's Get Fucked Up and Die" by Motion City Soundtrack.

“You’re not even going to give me an application?” cried Mac. Several people turned to stare at him; Dooley’s cheeks turned pink.

“I’m sorry, dude, I just can’t.” he said in a hushed tone.

“I have been your best dealer for years!” said Mac. Dooley’s eyes went big and he shushed him; anger bubbled up inside of Mac at the disrespect. “Don’t shush me you son of a bitch!”

“Do you want me to lose my job?” said Dooley. “You can’t just shout about drugs in here.”

“Well I wouldn’t have to if you would just give me a goddamn application,” said Mac through gritted teeth.

Dooley sighed. “Mac, you are a good. . .connection. . .but your other. . .connections. . .who have brought you on at other places have all gotten fired. I’m on welfare already, man, and I don’t have a side gig like you. I need this job.”

“You know that most of my buyers have moved away,” said Mac. “I need work too.”

“Look, you and I both know that you don’t actually want to work here. You’re desperate and you think you can turn all the sixteen-year-old girls in the back into tweakers,” said Dooley. “You’re gonna get drunk on the job and get fired and then six months from now a cop car will sit out front of our building to watch for drug offenses every single day. I’m not letting that happen.”

Mac swiped at the pile of trays in front of him in fury, and they clattered to the floor. He grabbed a handful of napkins, and threw them over the counter at Dooley’s stupid face.

“Have fun finding a new heroin dealer, asshole!” he said as loud as he possibly could. Then, he stormed out.

***

“I’m sorry, but we don’t accept discontinued employee discount cards,” said the bored cashier. His blonde hair and face were washed-out and greasy, and he rubbed an eye from exhaustion.

“It’s a system error,” lied Mac. “You can totally call my manager to confirm it tomorrow.”

The cashier slid the card back to Mac, squinting at him curiously.

“Is your name Ronnie?” he asked.

Mac swallowed, tense. “Yeah, maybe. What’s it to ya, bozo?”

The cashier yawned, and rustled his hair. “Heard about you though the grapevine. Something about getting plastered at the other store and puking on a customer?”

Mac could feel his ears and cheeks becoming hot. He clenched his fists by his sides. “Yeah, well. Don’t believe everything you hear.”

“Look, man, I don’t have any grudge and I’m kinda jealous that you fucked with management like that but I can’t sell you discount liquor if you’ve been fired,” said the cashier.

“Well, I can’t afford to pay full price, now that I’ve been fired,” said Mac.

“You could buy less liquor,” the cashier said. “I mean, two bottles of Everclear is a lot. Can you get your guests to bring their own liquor?”

“Guests?” asked Mac, puzzled.

“For the party you’re having,” said the cashier.

“Oh!” Mac faked a smile. “Yeah, that party I’m totally having. That’s definitely what I’m doing with all this liquor. All my friends are broke too.”

A line was forming behind Mac. Sweat began to pool under his armpits. Fuck, he needed an out asap.

“I guess I’ll just put one of these back. You’re right, I don’t need it,” said Mac. After taking a few slow steps away from the register, he ran back, snatched the other bottle of Everclear, and booked it towards the door.

“Security!” called the cashier. The word rang distantly in Mac’s ears as he tripped over his own feet and fell to the ground. Bottled shots of rumchata and vodka spilled out of his pockets. The bottle of Everclear smashed on the ground in front of him. The liquor pooled around his face and leaked into his clothes. A nasty cut on his hand started to bleed profusely. Most embarrassing of all, the security guard ended up being the person who helped him up off the floor.

“I’d tell you not to steal, but I think you learned your lesson,” he said in his gruff voice. Mac pushed him away, and flipped the entire store the bird with his bleeding hand as tears of pain welled up in his eyes. He stormed out, shoulders slumped and head hung low.

Mac ran through the list of local liquor stores in his mind. The closest one that would still let him in was an hour away on foot. He’d have to take the SEPTA with a bloody hand and less cash for liquor.

Goddammit.

***

The idea popped into his brain ten beers in while watching a rerun of MSTK3000 on Comedy Central later that evening. The film being ripped apart was called “City on Fire”; Mac had seen the episode at least five times already, all of them drunk off his ass. He giggled as the robots riffed on the bad dialogue. It was difficult to follow because of how wasted he was, but the parts he caught were as funny as ever.

Onscreen, the city burst into flames. Mac leaned forward in his chair as the fire consumed building after building. He licked his lips, suddenly imagining the liquor store and the McDonalds being eaten up just like the buildings in the movie. Those sons of bitches would never see it coming; they’d wake up in the morning, go to work, and not have a job just like Mac. Yeah, then they’d know how it felt! He could even steal cash from their registers and food and booze before he did it, just to really rub it in that everything was gone.

Mac got to his feet unsteadily. He burped, and a little bile tickled the back of his throat. He swallowed it back down. Focus.

This time he wasn’t going to fail at burning this stuff to the ground. He yanked open his bedroom, rifled through his closet, and pulled out his biggest backpack. It was an old one from high school, tattered and covered in faded ink doodles. One of them was Dooley’s name; Mac’s heart filled with rage again, and he stomped back into his living room to gather more supplies.

Four lighters were scattered across Mac’s coffee table. He swiped them up, and dumped them in the bag. Mac shoved four beers into his bag (two for drinking, of course, and two for hopefully a better ignition than last time). He dropped his keys into the bag too – there were a lot of mystery keys on the ring, and maybe one of them would be able to open registers. If not, well –

Mac stormed over to his kitchen, swaying back and forth. He shoved a small kitchen knife, a butter knife, and a butcher’s knife into the bag. Definitely one of them would be able to open the register if the keys didn’t work. Then, the spins hit Mac in full force. He closed his eyes, and steadied himself against the counter.  _No_.  _Focus_.

After his bout of the spins subsided, he realized he had no plan of how to get into the building. He would need a rock. . .or a brick. . .shit, he had neither. However, he did have a 20lb dumbbell sitting next to his television. He threw that into the bag too.

It was then that Mac realized the bookbag was getting very large and conspicuous. He would have to cover it up to look less suspicious as he walked down the street. He glanced around his living room, and saw a yellow raincoat slumped on the floor. Perfect.

Another wave of dizziness knocked Mac off his feet. He sat on the floor for a minute, willing his spins to subside. His cut hand, numb before now, suddenly throbbed with pain. Shit. Maybe the problem was that the beer was leaving his system and his body was in withdrawal. If he drank more, the spins would probably go away. Mac pulled a beer out of his bag, opened it and downed half. Then, he pushed himself to his feet. Back to work.

He probably needed his wallet for. . .something. It seemed right to bring it along. Mac searched for his wallet in the couch, and found it buried underneath a cushion. However, he frowned at his license giving off all of his information, and his card wasn’t much better. He tossed both onto the floor, and then put the rest of the wallet into his bag. Good. All ready to go.

Mac zipped up the bag, put it on his back, and put his raincoat on top. As he headed towards the door, his vision began to fade in and out. Then, his cold hardwood floor swerved up and hit him in the face.

In the morning, Mac woke up with a bruised eye, a puddle of puke, a bleeding hand, and no memory of what had happened at all.

 


End file.
